


Share with Me the Sun

by keraunoscopia



Category: Chicago Med
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, Light-Hearted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-02 14:00:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19442869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keraunoscopia/pseuds/keraunoscopia
Summary: Share with me the sun,You forget sometimes it's yours.





	1. Cause for Alarm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChameleonCircuit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChameleonCircuit/gifts).



Connor rolls over with a soft groan to silence the alarm blaring on his nightstand, and he blinks, eyes squinting as he tries to pull the world into focus, even in the dark. The alarm, and the green neon numbers tell him it’s nearly four AM, and if it were entirely his choice, he’d still be dead to the world after his twenty four hour shift. 

But it’s not entirely his, because of the woman laying next to him in bed, or on top of him, and sort of under him all at once, splayed out like a starfish trying to reach all four corners of his king sized bed. Monique. She’s still asleep, and Connor’s certain he’s never met someone like her, so resistant to waking up, so able to sleep through anything. She’s the one who has to be up now, not Connor, though the alarm seems to have had no effect. It’s Connor’s obligation to wake her, he knows, because it had been part of the deal when he convinced her to spend the night. 

So he rolls back towards her, wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, presses a soft kiss to her temple, “come on Mo, you gotta get up,” he smiles into the messy curls splayed out over his pillow. She doesn’t budge, “you’re going to have to skip the shower if you don’t get up,” he nudges her again, a little more firm. She just groans, burying her head back in the pillow, curling away from him. Connor chuckles, can’t help himself, because Monique is the softest, sweetest, most gentle person he’s ever met, except for when she’s being woken up. 

“You told me to get you up at quarter to four,” he shakes her shoulder now, “it’s almost four now,” the words are louder, not the same whispered tone. 

“Ten more minutes,” she grumbles, a biting tone to her voice as she pulls the duvet cover up over her head, putting a barrier between them. Connor sighs, because he knew what he was getting into when they made this deal, but it doesn’t make getting her up any easier, so he pushes himself up on his knees, pulls the blankets and sheets off of her entirely. 

“Connor, stop it,” her words are sharper than he expects, but he doesn’t give in, just pushes the blankets over to his side of the bed and throws a knee over her waist, leaning down to press her into a soft kiss, and Connor half expects her to push him away, expects that same stubborn fight, but she leans into it. 

“You told me to wake you up, whatever the cost,” he reminds her, lips still brushing against hers, and Monique sighs softly, lets her eyes flutter closed again, a soft groan escaping her lips. 

“You’re lucky you’re charming,” she grumbles again, finally opening her eyes up all the way, “there’s usually a lot more collateral damage.” 

Connor laughs, loud and hearty, because he’s seen that first hand, the cellphone and alarm clock which had both ended up casualties to the first time Monique had spent the night, “I know,” he laughs, “but it’s still worth it to get to wake up next to you.”


	2. Sunrise

It’s not that they have a morning routine per say, given that their mornings rarely have any sort of regularity. He works days, her schedule is all over the place, constantly filling in shifts simply because she can’t say no. 

But those days, those few and far between days where neither of them have any place to be, Connor lives for those days, when he can coax her into spending the night without the looming threat of having to wake her up, when he can sit up against the headboard as the sun creeps up higher in the sky, a book in his lap but watching her, so slowly rejoin the world of the living. 

He doesn’t disturb her, not on these days, not as much as he wants to nudge her awake to lay soft kisses against her hairline, on her neck, against her collarbone and lower. He knows what it’s like to constantly run on fumes, but she works herself to the point of exhaustion day in and day out. 

Monique rolls over, blinking up at him with wide green eyes, and she lets out a little whine before pulling the blanket over her head. 

Connor laughs and sets his book down on the nightstand, “it’s too early to be awake,” her words are muffled by the down duvet. 

“It’s almost eleven,” he supplies, words colored with a smile he can’t ever seem to lose when she’s around, “but you can go back to sleep, it’s your day off.” 

Monique throws back the covers in a huff and sits up enough just to drop herself unceremoniously on top of Connor, and he grins, because some how these days, their days off, are all the same, “pancakes?” She asks into his chest, and he nods, because he already knows.


	3. Barter System

After a twenty four hour shift and a twelve hour surgery, Connor’s body aches all over, and the only thing on his mind is going home, kicking off his shoes, and dragging Monique to bed whether she’s ready to sleep or not. And despite the way his joints creak as he climbs the front stairs to his building, a smile spreads across his face at the thought. Because he doesn’t have to beg her to stay anymore, because his apartment is her home too now. 

He pushes the front door open, eyelids heavy and already threatening to close, and he’s a little surprised to find that she isn’t nestled into the couch with a glass of wine and trash tv on like he’d expected, and he closes the door behind him with a frown. 

“Mo?” He calls gently into the empty apartment, peeks his head into his bedroom and she’s not there either, but his bed catches his eye, stripped of sheets and pillows but piled high with stacks of folded clothes, his clothes, and then he hears a rustle down the hall. The laundry room. 

“What are you doing?” Connor asks as he leans against the door frame, watching as she folds a shirt with careful precision, but his voice startles her, and she jumps, turning around wide eyed. 

“Gosh, I didn’t hear you come home,” she breaks into a smile though, and places the shirt on another stack before approaching, wrapping her arms around his waist, and Connor presses a soft kiss to the top of her head, chest blooming with warmth. 

“Why are you doing my laundry?” Connor asks softly, that sort of amused smile still plastered to his face. He knows he hasn’t gotten around to it lately, but he’d planned on paying the cleaner to help him catch up. 

“I don’t mind,” is her simple reply, looking up at him, chin resting on his chest, “and I figured I should help out a little since I can’t afford to split your rent…” 

“Mo, we talked about this,” Connor groans, and pulls her along with him as he steps backwards out of the laundry room, “I never expected you to split it when I asked you to move in.” He leads her down the hallway and back into the living room, away from the clothes, because he doesn’t want her to finish, doesn’t want her to feel like she has to earn her keep to stay here with him. 

“I know, but,” she starts softly, eyes falling to the floor, that gentle, innocent expression on her face making Connor’s stomach churn. “People already think I’m using you for your money.” 

“But we both know you’re using me for my body,” Connor can’t help but tease, and Monique tries to force a glare at him, but can’t quite keep the smile from tugging at the corners of her mouth. “This isn’t a barter system, Monique, not everything has to be tit for tat.” Monique raises an eyebrow. “It’s an expression,” he chastises in response, face flushing. 

“Yeah but you pay for everything, anytime we go anywhere, the rent, utilities, groceries,” she sighs, a sort of frustrated not creeping into her voice, “I don’t want you to end up resenting my lack of contribution.” 

There’s something about her tone that makes Connor wonder if this has been an argument before, with someone else, but he sits down on the couch, pulls her down on top of him, and kisses her, chaste but reassuring. “I didn’t want you to move in to be a roommate, Mo, the point isn’t to split responsibilities down the middle. I wanted you to move in because I love you. This isn’t some 1950s arrangement where I expect you to make dinner and do laundry and clean the bathroom,” she opens her mouth to protest, but Connor cuts her off, “I don’t mind paying for things, I like being able to take care of you. If you want to contribute to the rent, that’s fine, if you want to pay for groceries or utilities or whatever you want, that’s fine, but you don’t owe me anything, okay? I just want you.” 

Monique buries her face into Connor’s chest and lets out a little groan before she sighs, “okay. Okay.” She nods, “But I’m still going to finish the laundry tonight.” 

Connor chuckles, running his fingers through her loose curls, “okay, but only because I’m way too tired to make the bed right now,” he fights back a yawn as Monique pushes herself up from the couch, and glances over her shoulder as she heads back towards the laundry room, smiling just enough to reveal the dimples on her cheeks, and Connor’s sure he’s never loved anyone more.


	4. Night Cap

It’s not that anyone told him, because nobody knows he has an interest to begin with, but the nurses love to gossip, so it doesn’t take long for Connor to hear about the shooting, about April, and Doris, and Monique. And he doesn’t have enough of an excuse to check on her, because they’re not exactly _something_ per say. 

They could be. He wants that. 

Nothing stays secret long at Chicago Med, which is why he resists every urge to run down to the ED when he hears the next news update, that Monique is holed up somewhere crying because she thinks it’s her fault. But she’s the one who insisted on keeping things casual, and she’s the one who didn’t want anyone at the hospital to know, so he can’t. 

Instead, he waits until her shift ends, and stops at the liquor store to pick up the cheap white wine he knows she prefers, because he can’t help but pay attention to every little thing about her, and he picks up a pint of her favorite ice cream, along with the waffle bowls that he thinks are kind of ridiculous but he knows she thinks are necessary, and he shows up at her door, not sure what to expect, because this hasn’t been what they’ve done. It’s been light hearted and casual. Soft and sweet, but shallow. 

Her eyes are red rimmed and wet when she opens the door, and her lips part in a surprised “oh, Connor,” because she hadn’t been expecting him. 

“I heard about what happened,” he says softly, “are you okay?” 

She nods unconvincingly. 

“I know we didn’t have plans, but I thought maybe we could hang out for a bit?” He offers gently. 

“Hang out?” She asks, voice a little raspy, like she’s still trying to hold it together. 

“Not like…” he holds up the bags, the wine and the waffle cones and the ice cream because he doesn’t want her to get the wrong idea, stomach clenching at the idea that she might even think he’d be so callous so show up with that kind of expectation. “I thought maybe we could just watch a movie or something.” 

There’s something of a light blush spreading across the bridge of Monique’s nose, and she nods, stepping back to let him in. And they don’t talk about what happened earlier, about the shooting, about the blame, but they wrap themselves together in blankets, wash down strawberry ice cream with Riesling, and laugh through half the Princess Bride before she falls asleep against his arm. It’s not a date really, but as far as Connor’s concerned, it’s better than anything they’ve shared so far.


	5. Nights Like This

It’s hard to fall into a routine, what with the way their schedules never seem to sync, but not for the first time, Monique finds herself wishing that they did, because she could certainly get used to this. 

The pots and dishes from dinner are drying in the rack next to her sink, the leftovers have already been placed neatly into Tupperware that the two of them will bring to work tomorrow for lunch, and Monique’s blond ringlets fan out around her head against navy blue satin sheets as Connor’s fingers trace the curve of her bare hip. This is the third night in a row their schedules have lined up. 

She shivers, from his touch, and from the sinking feeling in her stomach, because it’s maybe only just occurred to her how much she wants this. Not just Connor’s hands on her skin, but this pattern, this routine, the domesticity and blissful expectation. 

“You’re thinking,” Connor murmurs as he presses a soft, open mouthed kiss to the side of her neck, and her head tips to the side purely out of instinct. 

“I’ve been known to do that from time to time,” she teases lightly, dragging blunt fingernails down his back, delighting in that sinful sort of smirk that spreads across Connor’s face into something of a promise. 

“What are you thinking about?” He corrects, leaning back in to nuzzle at her neck, scrape his teeth against her collar bone, and it’s so delicate, just a hint of the direction they both have every intention of heading. Monique can feel herself unraveling so slowly as his hand teases down her thigh. 

“I like this,” she settles on, because it’s a safe admission. 

“I’d certainly hope so,” Connor chuckles in response, but pauses all the same. 

“I mean tonight, not just this but us…” Monique can feel her cheeks flush, feels more exposed now than when Connor had undressed her moments before. 

But Connor breaks into a grin, and Monique lets go of the breath that had caught in her throat. She doesn’t hear the “I do too,” that’s whispered against her skin as Connor trails kisses down her stomach, but she doesn’t need to, because she knows.


	6. Farmer’s Market

It’s Sunday and the sun is out in full force despite the fact that it’s barely noon and Monique can feel the heat of a burn beginning on her shoulders as she trails after Connor. It’s their first full day off together in ages, and Monique still isn’t quite sure how he managed to get her out of bed so early, much less drag her to a farmer’s market near his apartment. 

Connor lingers at each stall, chatting with the sellers, an easy sort of familiarity, and he fills a tote bag with pints of fresh strawberries, golden cherries, plums, and a variety of vegetables that Monique isn’t even certain she could name. 

It’s strange to her, really, seeing him like this, outside of the hospital, outside his or her apartment, but she likes it, even if this is the first time she’s ever been to a farmer’s market, even if she didn’t even know they had one in Chicago. 

“Do you want anything?” Connor turns to look at her as they near the end of the strip and Monique just smiles, shakes her head, and steps into his side, wrapping an arm around him. 

“I should have known you were the kind of rich little dork who shops at farmer’s markets,” she teases lightly as he presses a kiss to her temple and shifts the bag to his other hand to wrap an arm around her shoulders. 

“Hey now, it’s good for the environment and the local economy,” he defends with a quick smile. 

“Yeah, and you have the luxury of making your decisions based on that instead of price. We were lucky to get a bag of apples when I was growing up, produce is expensive even at regular stores,” Monique replies, resting her head against Connor’s shoulder. 

Connor doesn’t say anything for a moment, and Monique can feel her stomach churning, because she doesn’t talk about her childhood, hasn’t revealed much of anything to him yet, but she can hear the gears in his brain spinning. 

“Actually,” she interrupts, eyes settling on the last stand “can we get blueberries?”

“Of course, you don’t have to ask,” Connor laughs, drops a soft kiss to her lips and turns to the table to pick out a couple pints. He doesn’t ask what for, and an affectionate smile spreads across her lips, because she still remembers that conversation they had late one night several months ago, so she remembers that blueberry pie is his favorite.


	7. All Alright

If it were entirely up to him, Connor wouldn’t be here at all, wouldn’t even think of setting foot in this sort of place. But unfortunately, it’s not entirely up to him, because of the bossy and frustrating woman he’s chosen to share his space with. 

“Explain to me why we’re doing this again?” Connor whispers into her ear as she unrolls a purple yoga mat across the hardwood floor of the studio and turns to look at him. 

“Because you promised me if I went on that god forsaken run with you that you’d come to a class with me,” Monique responds with a matter-of-fact smirk, swatting Connor’s hand away as it slips down her back to the curve of her butt. 

“This may be worth it for the view alone,” he teases lightly even as she pushes him back over to his own mat and settles down on the floor. 

“Shhh,” she chastises, “pay attention, the class is going to start,” but even despite her words she can’t help but break into a smile at the soft, affectionate look he gives her as he sits down too. 

When they finally stumble out of the studio, sweaty and stretched out, it’s Connor leaning heavily against Monique’s shoulder. “Is that supposed to be fun?” He complains as they head down the street back towards Connor’s apartment. 

“It’s exercise, Connor, it’s supposed to be work, and it’s better than running,” she replies with a laugh, patting Connor’s cheek with an affectionate smile. 

“Agree to disagree,” he wrinkles his nose, “humans aren’t supposed to bend that way, trust me, I’m a doctor.” 

Monique groans and rolls her eyes, “I didn’t hear you complaining about that last night,” she teases in return, even as a light flush settles on the bridge of her nose. 

Connor breaks into a grin, and presses a sweaty kiss to her cheek, “I suppose I could be convinced.”


	8. Stitch Fix

It’s cold but she doesn’t really seem to notice, can’t quite feel the way the wind whips through the thin fabric of her scrubs as she stands out on the rooftop, hands white knuckled around the railing. She doesn’t feel the cold because she doesn’t feel anything, other than the weight that has settled like a rock in the pit of her stomach. Her eyes sting, and she knows it’s from the crisp air, rather than tears, because she’s been moving in slow motion since she got the call, but she just can’t seem to muster them. 

“Mo?” His voice is soft, hesitant, like somewhere in the back of his mind he’s worried that she’s too close to the edge, like startling her might push her over. She should have known he’d find her here, because it’s their place, where he first kissed her, where they find themselves on rough days. 

Today is a rough day, but she hadn’t even thought about where her feet were taking her. 

“Monique,” he repeats, and steps further out onto the roof, and she turns to look at him, biting at her lip, “Maggie said you got a phone call, that you just walked out. What happened?” 

It’s not until now that she realizes she’s shivering, that the frigid wind has seeped into her bones, and instead of an explanation, when she opens her mouth, all that comes out is a small sob. Connor closes the distance between them without hesitation, takes her into his arms, settles his hand on the back of her head, holding her close. He doesn’t pry any further, doesn’t ask for an explanation. 

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs, more to himself than anything as she trembles against his chest, her own heaving with each sob, like everything has been stacked up too high and finally reached its tipping point. Connor just steps back for a moment, shrugs out of the worn in, well loved sweatshirt he’s thrown on and wraps it around her shoulders, snug and warm. Monique just leans into him further, curls back into his chest like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be. And there isn’t. Eventually, she’ll have to tell him, admit what lead her to the balcony, but for now, his arms, the sweatshirt, they’re enough.


	9. Fever Chill

In all the years she’s known him, Connor’s never taken a sick day. She’s seen him work through colds, food poisoning, even the flu, insisting on an IV bag and some Tylenol during his breaks rather than leaving the hospital. So when she asks around to find out why he’s notoriously absent, and Maggie explains that he called in sick, her stomach churns with unease, because something must be seriously wrong if he can’t make it into the hospital. 

She texts him, because she worries, and he assures her that he’s okay, that it’s just an upset stomach, but still, Monique can’t quite settle the tension in her chest as she rolls through the motions of her shift, administering meds, changing over rooms. It doesn’t take much thought anymore, not on a slow night like tonight, but it means that her mind is free to wander, free to worry. 

Monique has always been a bit of a fatalist, running through each worst case scenario. So when her shift finally ends, she can’t help but turn left instead of right when she leaves the hospital, walks the four blocks to his apartment rather than taking the train home to her own. And when she gets to the door, she hesitates, because she knows she’s not invited, because she knows Connor might not want to see her, that this sick story might not be the truth. But her concern for him outweighs the fear of being wrong, so she knocks, and waits, and hears nothing. 

“Connor?” She calls before knocking again. There’s still nothing which only serves to exacerbate her concern, and on a chance, she tries the doorknob, lets the unlocked door swing open and steps inside. 

The living room is empty, but a mess of tissues, and a trash can sit next to the couch, so she closes the door behind her and wanders towards the bedroom. A foot catches her eye first, out of the corner of her vision, against the tiled bathroom floor and she rushes in, heart pounding in her chest, because Connor’s lying there on the floor next to the toilet, the acrid stench of bile hitting her nose, and for a moment, she’s terrified that he’s gone, but he groans and curls in on himself, clutching at his stomach and she breathes a soft sigh of relief. 

“Connor,” she murmurs, jostling him slightly before placing a hand against his forehead. “You’re burning up.” 

“I’m fine,” he replies, eyes only half open, but it comes out more of a whimper than anything. 

“I’m supposed to expect that being passed out on the bathroom floor is a normal occurrence for you now?” She chastises softly, but helps him sit up, back against the wall, and her heart twists painfully in her chest as she notes the dried vomit on his shirt, the pained look on his face, “why didn’t you call me?” 

“‘M gross, didn’t want you to see me like this,” Connor mumbles as Monique stands and turns the shower on, lets the water run luke warm. 

“Connor, I’m a nurse, this doesn’t even begin to touch gross,” she chuckles with soft affection, kneeling down next to him, pulling at the hem of his shirt. “Come on, lets get you cleaned up and back to bed,” she encourages, and he winces as he leans forward enough for her to peel his shirt off. 

“Didn’t want to change the way you look at me,” he mumbles, words all slurred together as his eyes threaten to close again. 

She sighs softly, because the words she desperately wants to say, the words that have been on the tip of her tongue for months now, they aren’t the right words for this moment. “Would it change the way you look at me? If I were sick?” She asks instead. 

Connor shakes his head before lurching forward, stomach clenching painfully as he dry heaves, and Monique bites her lip, rubs gentle circles on his back until the wave passes. 

They don’t say anything more, just move wordlessly in synch as she strips off the rest of his clothes, coaxes him into the shower, and while he rinses off, Monique wanders to his bedroom. It’s familiar; in a way his apartment feels more like home than hers ever has, so she knows where to find fresh sheets and blankets, and strips the bed, changes the pillows. 

Monique doesn’t know how to tell him she loves him yet, but she knows how to show him. So when he gets out of the shower, she wraps him in a towel, and helps him into pajamas because he’s still a little unsteady on his feet, and she helps him into the freshly made bed, gets him tylenol and a glass of water, places a wet washcloth against his forehead, kisses his cheek. And then she moves to leave, because he didn’t invite her here anyway, and she doesn’t want to overstay. 

“Where are you going?” Connor asks softly, blankets pulled up to his chin, face still a sickly sort of pale. 

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to stay…” she trails off uncertainly. 

“Please?” He asks. And how could she say no?


	10. Hair Line Fracture

The sun seems impossibly bright white as it shines through the windows of Connor’s living room, refraction off the fallen snow giving the illusion that it’s later in the day than it really is. Monique yawns again as she settles her head in Connor’s lap, a sort of slowness to her movements, no urgency. 

They have the day off together, which she appreciates more than usual after three doubles in a row, and though part of her wants nothing more than to go back to sleep, she likes laying here, on the couch as Connor scans the news and sports center and whatever else it is he watches while she day dreams, his fingers working their way through her tangled curls. 

“Are we going to talk about it?” Connor asks softly, fingertips still against her scalp, soft and more soothing than they have any right to be, what with the anxiety those words should instill. 

“Talk about what?” She hums noncommittally, because she knows what he means but doesn’t really want to talk about it. And though she asked him the question, she doesn’t give him the chance to answer, “will you braid my hair?” She asks instead, a hopeful distraction, something that she’s only managed to coax him into once before, after her first real conversation with Claire, and the accompanying revelation. 

Monique stands and grabs a brush from the bathroom counter, and when she returns, she settles on the floor instead, tucked between his knees, back against the couch. 

“You still have to talk, Mo,” Connor replies as he takes the brush from her hands, starts working the bristles through the ends of her bed-tangled mane. “What upset you last night? Maggie said you got a phone call?” 

Monique sighs and shuts her eyes, wrapping her arms around her knees as Connor drags the brush through her hair with gentle care. “My mom died,” she admits softly, too softly, so much that she thinks maybe he didn’t hear her, except that the brush stills halfway through her locks. 

“What? When?” Connor asks, and Monique winces at the concern in his voice, the incredulity, the slight hint of betrayal that it’s taken her twelve hours to say anything. 

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, and Connor’s not sure what to do with that, so he settles on parting her hair with his fingers, lets her relax back into his touch. 

“How can you not know?” He asks cautiously, because they’ve been together a while now, and she’s never mentioned her mom. 

“I… didn’t ask my dad for details. I haven’t seen her in years, she…” Monique’s voice catches in her throat. “She left us when I was really little. She’d show up every now and then, claiming she was better, that she wanted to be in our lives again, but it was always for money, or to take our things,” and there’s a bitter sort of note to her voice that she can’t quite help, “it’s not like she was a mom to me, what kind of mom convinces her seven year old daughter to give her every single penny she ever saved to buy drugs?” Her voice cracks, and one of Connor’s hands settle on her shoulder, a reassuring sort of weight. 

Monique is grateful, really, that he can’t look her in the eye, that her back is facing his. “I didn’t keep track, last I heard, she was homeless, but that was two years ago…” Connor twists a band around the end of her braid and slides down onto the floor behind her, wraps his arms around her waist, still silent, not wanting to interrupt what she has to say, chin settled on her shoulder. “I could have tried harder to get her help, but part of me was just… so angry.”

Monique cranes her neck, shifts a little to look at him, wide eyes filled with tears that haven’t quite fallen over the edge yet, “is this my fault?”

Connor’s arms tighten around her waist, and he presses his forehead to her temple, nose against her cheek, a startling gravity, certainty to his voice, “no. It’s not your fault.” 

It’s what she needed to hear, but the tears fall anyway.


End file.
